Pass The Only Ketchup
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: Peggy and Stan are abandoned by their coworkers at the bar after the failed Heinz Bake-off, then decide to leave together.


"Looks like they left you all by your lonesome," said Stan, returning from the bathroom, flagon of beer in hand. He looked like a very gentlemanly Viking with his new beard. "I'd have pegged Ted to find a taxidermist for that pride you murdered." He sat down next to her and flagged over the bartender for a refill. He ordered another rye rocks for her.

Peggy had indeed been abandoned at the bar when Peter Campbell stomped out in a snit. Ted went back to the office, his usual chipper demeanour shattered by the unfairness of the bake-off. Even though all was fair in war and the advertising business, she still felt a twinge of guilt over using Stan's intel. She wasn't really sure why. That shit happened all the time in the advertising business. Stan, of all people, knew that. The only thing keeping her feeling less guilt was knowing Stan didn't really care anyway. He'd have been the first to tell her to pounce on it if they were still working together.

"By the way," continued Stan, nudging her arm, "I appreciated you not ratting me out, after that dick move you pulled. But confidentially speaking, I tip my hat. Well done."

"I learned from the best, Coach Rizzo," she returned, with a wan smile. Stan gently rubbed her back a couple of times before returning to his mug. She didn't want to admit how nice the bodily contact felt. Peggy felt her pulse quicken at his touch.

"Speaking of…it's interesting Ted knew what to order you. You two drink together a lot?" He eyed her sideways. "And what the hell is an Old Spanish?"

"Ugh. He's always drinking those at meetings. Red wine, tonic water and olives," she replied, making a gagging face. Stan's face registered horror. "But in case you were insinuating something, yes, he seems to have a crush, but it drives me nuts. He's always interrupting my phone calls and snooping in my office. I'm not stupid. Plus, I told you about Duck Phillips."

"And I told you my nickname for him," Stan retorted. They snickered in unison at the remembered dirty pun, as Peggy clinked her whiskey glass with his mug. "You going back to the office today?" He rubbed his beard. Peggy wished she could touch it. One more drink in her, and she might. She shook her head.

"No, Ted gave me the day off. I didn't feel like going back to the office anyway. They'll be miserable over there."

"Mmmmhmm." Stan stared into the stein absently.

"Um – Stan, look, I know it's how these things go – we did the same damn bakeoff with Honda before you came on board. But, you know. I did tell him no," she mumbled, swirling the swizzle stick in her glass. "He called you the Enemy or something."

"Yeah, sounds about right. We used to call them worse names at DDB." He swigged down the rest of his beer. "Come on, shitbird, cheer up. No hard feelings. I was just ragging on you earlier."

"I know."

"That's how this business works. I should have known better. Like usual, I underestimated you. And then you pull a stunt like that and I…" he looked at Peggy's stoic face, prepared for the worst, and decided to take advantage of the situation. "Hey. How about you make it up to me by buying dinner?"

Peggy smiled. "Ya know what? Even better - I'll make you my famous lasagna. It's been a while since you've had a home-cooked meal, hasn't it?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Not since I was home last…three years ago. Sure you want to do a traditional woman's job?"

Peggy laughed. "Only if you appreciate it. Abe won't touch it. He's a vegetarian these days." She mimicked his earnestness with a cynical tone. Stan took note and went for the jab.

"So was Hitler." Peggy nodded bitterly.

He handed over her pocketbook, and they walked out of the bar together. They spent the rest of the afternoon shopping for the ingredients and horsing around. The somber mood of earlier had disappeared as the two friends people-watched on the subway and caught up on less-threatening work gossip.

Later that evening, they were back at Stan's place. He only lived about ten blocks south of her and Abe, but she'd only ever been there once, to pick up his portfolio for a presentation. He'd been sick as a dog that day, and she remembered feeling sorry for him that he was so miserable and alone.

Stan had a very small, almost Spartan one-bedroom, with a pleasant street view. The kitchenette was also quite small, with a small bar and stools instead of a proper dining table. The stove was at least twenty years old, but Stan barely used it to do more than make coffee or heat up cans of soup. His fridge was empty, except for a few condiments, a half-eaten pastrami sandwich, and several bottles of beer.

The living room consisted of his drawing table, a few spider plants in large hanging planters, a record player and shelf filled with albums; a tiny portable television on a small table, a nearly threadbare red velvet 40 year old sofa with matching coffee table, an overflowing book shelf; and a red ashtray in the middle of the table, filled halfway with spent cigarettes. Even though he had plastered the walls in the Creative Lounge with all sorts of inspiration, and decorated their door with a Lyndon Johnson skeleton, his own home was quite minimalist and strangely comfortable. The only decoration in the living room was a massive painting that he'd done in school – a gorgeous pastoral landscape scene of rolling hills.

He noticed Peggy admiring it from the kitchenette, and said with a proud smile, "That's my grandparents' farm in Virginia. I was going to give it to Grandma, but she died before I finished it."

"It's really beautiful," she said, dreamily, as she started browning hamburger and sauce. The smell was amazing. "I've only been to Virginia once. It wasn't like this." She remembered the humping dogs. She knew Stan painted on the side for fun, but she was really blown away by how talented he was. Stan shrugged and took it for granted – whatever it took to keep food on the table and a roof over his head.

Peggy kicked off her shoes and took off her jacket, and poured them each a glass of beer, and started dinner. She threw some garlic into the cooking meat. Stan put on a record he'd picked up recently. Where these days Abe was listening to more politically-charged folk stuff that got on her nerves, Stan's tastes ran more toward poetic. Made sense – despite the sporty front he put up, Stan had a secret soft spot for poetry and literature. As she scanned his book shelf, volumes of William Blake, Donne, Keats and Shelley caught her eye. She liked that secret side of him.

"Hey Rizzo! What is this music? I really like it," she said, tasting the sauce and adding a little more oregano. "That singer has a great voice."

"The Doors," he replied, examining the cover. "They're kinda heavy. I dig it; they have great lyrics." he said, putting it on the coffee table. "Speaking of soul kitchens, that smells amazing. Do you need any help?"

Peggy was really taken aback by this. On one hand, it was something that Stan used to ask all the time at work, and it drove her crazy - but it was different in a kitchen. Abe usually just let Peggy do all the housework while he toiled away on his typewriter. For all his talk about progressive action, he was really old-fashioned when it came to women. Lately his sanctimonious crap had been bothering her. She smiled and shrugged and waved him over.

"Sure, I like a team player. Go ahead and wash up. You can cut the onions, if you're a glutton for punishment." Peggy finally had relaxed in the unfamiliar environment. The music helped. She made a mental note to borrow the Doors record from Stan sometime, or maybe hint about getting a copy for her upcoming birthday.

"Great!" He came over and did exactly as she asked; finding himself having a lot of fun doing so. His mother had never allowed him in the kitchen, so this was all very new. Peggy showed him how to season and layer, and explained some of her mother's cooking secrets. Stan was, to her surprise, an eager student. She kept comparing Abe to Stan in the back of her mind, which was heading toward dangerous territory as they crowded together in the kitchenette.

They continued their banter and played more records while the lasagna cooked. The smell was incredible.

Peggy was so happy to be in Stan's familiar company once again. She had missed their dynamic since she left SCDP. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn't have nearly as much fun at CGC. But without the stress of work deadlines looming over them, just having fun with Stan for fun's sake felt just as comfortable as those all-nighters. And that stood out to her.

When it finished cooking, Stan insisted on serving the lasagna to Peggy like a waiter. He had a couple of mismatched flea market plates and some old silverware pieces he'd inherited from his grandmother. It wasn't exactly fancy, but he took great relish in serving dinner. They ate side by side on his barstools, just like earlier in the day.

"I can't eat any more," she moaned, shoving the last forkful of her third piece into her mouth. Stan marveled at how much that girl could pack away. "You can save the rest for your lunch tomorrow."

"That's really sweet of you."

"Sometimes I can't believe you're the same man from that horrible Waldorf night," Peggy laughed. "Did I whip you that much? Jesus." She got up and took her plate to rinse off at the sink.

"It wasn't ALL horrible. You gave me plenty of inspiration," he shot back, following her into the kitchen.

"Oh, is that what that was?" she laughed, remembering Stan's embarrassing predicament. "I pretended I wasn't impressed, but it was a nice compliment. Despite what you said."

"What did I say?"

"That it was involuntary."

"Oh, that," Stan said, reddening under his beard. "You know, now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't."

Peggy looked at him, prepared for his usual lecherous smile of mischief, the one he used on her when he tricked her into kissing him. She didn't see it. _That damn beard_. _I can't read his face anymore._

She was not prepared for his softened eyes. She smiled nervously and giggled to try to diffuse the sudden heaviness between them; to ignore her pounding heart. Stan and she had a long history of flirt-fighting, but this was not a neutral place like the Creative Lounge. This was his territory. His home. And things were getting dangerous.

She turned 90 degrees, and they both leaned against the counter, standing side by side. Stan backed off, thinking he might have gone one step too far; that it would be laughed off and forgotten in five seconds like always.

Instead, Peggy laid her hand on top of his. Tentatively, at first, feeling the heat of his skin against her palm rising; then more solidly. He shifted his hand and curled his fingers solidly around hers. They stood there, holding hands, not making eye contact, for a few minutes. Neither wanted to break the spell by speaking. Instead, Peggy shifted her small body closer to his, and he put his arm around her waist, circling her hip with his fingers.

"Do you do this to all the girls you bring home?" she croaked weakly.

"What girls?" he laughed hollowly.

"I don't know." Peggy said softly.

Stan noticed she had a spot of tomato sauce on the corner of her mouth. He swallowed his fears and tentatively reached toward it to wipe it off. For a split second he was afraid she would slap at him, but his bravery increased as she turned her face toward him and watched his hand.

"Sauce…" he whispered. Her eyes closed as his finger brushed her cheek. He noticed her shiver.

Peggy's heart pounded so hard she couldn't hear anything but the blood rushing through her ears. Her body trembled so much she was afraid she'd faint. Stan? Really? She just thought he was horsing around. That look of tenderness was not a joke. This was a very different look than the one he gave her the day he tried to "teach her the old yogi trick."

"Peggy…do you have any idea how I…?" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Me too," she said, almost too quickly.

All fears cast aside, Stan took the lead from there. He enveloped her small body in his arms as their passion escalated. Tasting each other, exploring each other's necks with their lips, wrapping their fingers in each other's hair. Peggy gently stroked Stan's beard as their eyes locked together.

"What are we doing? God," she said, without a trace of guilt.

"I don't care," he replied, stroking her hair lovingly. "All I know is that I like it and I think you do, too."

He leaned down and connected his lips with hers once again. This kiss was more languid and tender than their last; a kiss that stirred him even deeper than the passionate clash. A kiss that had real feelings behind it.

"But then again, I don't seem to have any scruples left," she whispered into his ear.

"Stay with me, baby," he whispered back, sending shivers throughout her whole body.

She returned this sentiment by jumping onto him, wrapping her legs around his hips, kissing him madly. She put her hands against both his cheeks and laid her forehead against his.

"Is it involuntary now?" she asked, with a hint of mischief.

Stan smiled and they stumbled into his bedroom together. What ensued, Peggy would remember for the rest of her life as The Golden Standard. Stan, for all his bluffing, was so damn good in the sack. And to be sure, Stan had never connected with anyone in bed quite this electrifying. As usual, he'd underestimated Peggy. God DAMN.

Afterward, Peggy collapsed on Stan's chest, wrapping her arms around him, completely exhausted and happy. After a few minutes to gather back her wits, she stroked Stan's broad chest with her fingers. She felt his heart still pounding under her breasts. It filled her with an emotion dangerously close to love, and scared her.

"I have something to confess," she said.

"What's that?" he said lazily, debating whether they should share a cigarette or a joint. He felt too tired to bother with either.

"I felt more guilt about going behind your back with Heinz than I do going behind Abe's. How fucked up is that?" she chuckled.

"Boilerplate Peggy Olson," he mumbled, closing his eyes in happiness. "Don't make me quack at you."

"Stan?"

"Mmmm?" He fought to keep his eyes open, and pulled Peggy tighter against him in a sleepy haze.

"I have no idea where I'm at right now. With everything. I…this…you…"

Stan's eyes flew open at what Peggy said to him, as they looked at each other. Peggy's face softened when she saw that Stan understood. He held her tightly.

"You are in a very comfortable bed with me, Stan, your friend. It's okay, Peggy, I knew exactly what we were getting into. Christ, does anyone know what they're doing? Let's just enjoy this moment, right now."

"We're going to be okay after this?"

"Within reason," he smiled. The outside lights shone directly on Peggy, illuminating her face in a way that made her look almost girlish. "I've never seen you like this. You're so beautiful."

Peggy's face exploded into a beatific smile as she leaned in to kiss him.

"Keep talking like that, Rizzo, and I might fall in love."

"Come here, shitbird."

They fell asleep, entwined in each other's arms, enjoying the moment.


End file.
